


Lost/Found

by BlanketAffinity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Divorce, Domestic, M/M, Marriage, Reconciliation, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:29:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlanketAffinity/pseuds/BlanketAffinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was eight months since John had moved out.  He’d been on six unsuccessful blind dates, kissed two women and one man, and invited no one home.  John measured the time that had passed in increments like that.  Twelve nightmares since Sherlock.  Eight times being followed home since Sherlock.  Two times blacking out drunk on the couch since Sherlock.  Endless ‘I’m fines’ since Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freezerjerky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezerjerky/gifts).



> Johnlock Challenges gift for freezerjerky. Prompt: Divorced, brought back together. I do hope you like it, I will be trying to stick to a posting schedule of about a chapter a day!

The first time John Watson saw Sherlock Holmes again was at Tesco’s, of all places. 

Shopping for one was an unpleasant habit to get back into, not the least of all the little, dreadful ways John’s life had changed since the divorce. He’d been in the canned goods aisle buying soup when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw that unmistakable silhouette stalk past, no doubt on its way to the refrigerated section. John wasn’t proud of this fact, but it was too soon for him and, once he promptly replaced the can of Campbell’s on the shelf, he walked briskly out of the store. He couldn’t face him. Not today.

Shame, really. Guess he’d have to find somewhere else to get groceries.

At the time, he’d been crashing on Stamford’s sofa, spending his days scrolling through apartment listings online surrounded by the boxes holding all his things. Of course Sherlock had decided to keep the flat. Wasn’t that the most perfectly Sherlock thing to do in a situation like this? Keep the flat and leave John to figure out his own thing? When he did trudge to work, he could see people not understanding his sour mood until their eyes caught the lack of ring on his finger. Their sudden change in temperament, instantly so sickeningly helpful, only put him out the more. 

The second time John saw Sherlock was when he’d stopped by the Yard to see if Greg wanted to come over with some of his mates to break in the new flat John had found only a few blocks away from Baker Street. 

He hadn’t finished unpacking or anything, but at least he was starting to get a bit of his own life back, and it’d be nice to have everyone back together again. Minus a certain Holmes who John was certain hadn’t kept up with the socializing without John around to force it. In hindsight, it was stupid, thinking he wouldn’t run into Sherlock there. 

He’d stepped into the office where he could see the DI reclining at his desk. Greg was ever so slightly too friendly in his greeting, but not enough to piss off John entirely.

“Sure, yeah of course I’d love to come over, John. Haven’t seen you around in a few weeks, thought you’d fallen off the face of the earth,” he said, sipping on his coffee.

“Course not,” said John, lips tense and hands in pockets, “Just sort of getting back into the swing of things is all.”

“Yeah well I understand that, don’t I? You know the first time the wife moved out, I was a total wreck. Nearly lost my job, I took it so badly. So you know if anyone gets where you’re coming from, it’s me.”

John gave a small smile, appreciatively. He opened his mouth to say something, when he saw Greg’s eyes dart to just behind John’s shoulders, then right back to John’s eyes. It took John only about five seconds to figure out what was going on. He heaved a controlled sigh and blinked rapidly a few times.

“He’s here?” he said quietly, “Really?”

“Look, we still need him on cases and all!” said Greg quickly, justifying himself with a raise of his eyebrows and a repentant lifting of his shoulders, “And don’t get me wrong, he’s been even more of a git since you left and-“

“ _I_ didn’t leave,” hissed John, fervently, quietly, “And if that’s what he’s been telling everyone, he’s got another thing coming to him-“

John cut himself off as the door behind him opened. He turned to confirm that it was just a police officer coming in, checking something with DI Lestrade. John wasn’t listening to whatever he’d come to tell Greg, too busy searching the busy seas of desks for that damned silhouette. Sure enough, there he was, leafing through paperwork it seemed while Donovan stood beside him, tapping her foot impatiently. Donovan saw him, it seemed, her mouth parting slightly. Christ, was John really noticing that from so far away? All those years with Sherlock must have had an effect. Sherlock’s lips were moving, he was saying something to Donovan. He looked up, brows folded. He was surprised at the lack of biting commentary – obvious, that was always Sally’s response, and Sherlock had noticed its absence. His eyes followed hers and met John’s for an instant. 

At that point it had been two months. John still didn’t quite feel ready. 

The third time John saw Sherlock, three months after the fight, he didn’t actually see him at all. It was his name on a text. 

‘Filed the application. Should hear from the court soon. Average divorce proceedings should take 4-6 weeks. Mycroft can get it down to 3. SH’

John didn’t answer right away. He’d actually been having a halfway decent afternoon. About a week ago, he’d adopted a cat. He hadn’t been coping well with the empty apartment, not having anyone to chat to when he got out of the shower, no one to complain to about the weather, no one to split takeaway with to meet the delivery minimum. The cat didn’t help with all of that, but at least it made John feel less crazy when he found himself talking to no one. And after all, Sherlock had always hated animals of any kind. John managed to convince himself that this was a pro, one of countless things he could finally do with his life now that Sherlock was gone. 

Sherlock never wanted kids either. Not that that had been a surprise when they’d married. John liked to convince himself that now maybe he could find someone who wanted the same things as he did. But when it was three in the morning and he couldn’t sleep and he was walking barefoot on his kitchen linoleum and stubbing his toes and cursing in the darkness, he suspected that there’d never be anyone else, that he’d already had the bad luck to give his heart and his life to a man who’d broken both twice already. 

They had one very tense meeting about paperwork a week later, which John blocked from his memory entirely. 

The fifth time John saw Sherlock was after Christmas. Christmas had been a nightmare, Harry was all sympathy and coddles and John left the family party early. 

John was swiping his oyster card to get on the tube when he saw Sherlock, examining some bit of pavement that was for some unknown reason completely fascinating. He’d lost weight, John noticed. Not surprising, since John was the only one who forced Sherlock to eat anyway. The passers-by were giving Sherlock odd looks, though to John it was only too obvious that Sherlock was observing things in his own Sherlock sort of way. But John didn’t hang around to observe much more. Shaking his head, knowing Sherlock hadn’t noticed him (typical), he hopped on the next train. It didn’t ruin his day, like it had the other few times. 

It was eight months since John had moved out. He’d been on six unsuccessful blind dates, kissed two women and one man, and invited no one home. John measured the time that had passed in incrememnts like that. Twelve nightmares since Sherlock. Eight times being followed home since Sherlock. Two times blacking out drunk on the couch since Sherlock. Endless ‘I’m fines’ since Sherlock.

It was precisely 251 nights since Sherlock (not that John was counting) when he got a phone call from Lestrade that would change those units.


	2. Chapter 2

Tuesday night and John was exhausted after a long day at the surgery. He hadn’t thought about Sherlock yet today, so, it was a good day. The days where he didn’t think about him were slowly starting to outnumber the days he did. He’d forgotten an umbrella, and was forced to just sort of wince and hurry in defense against the drizzle. The flat was warm, though. It was messy by John’s standards – he tended to keep his flat very tidy. No extraneous decorations, save a few things friends had brought by at the housewarming. He’d never had much of an eye nor much of a care for decorating. As long as the flat was functioning, he could live with just about anything else inside.

And of course, mess only reminded him of Sherlock and the constant state of 221B.

As it was, there were a few empty bottles still lying around from a sort-of get together on Saturday. Molly’d gotten engaged to some nice bloke who none of them really knew, and there’d been an impromptu get-together at John’s with a few friends after she sprung the news on them. Of course John had been happy for her. They all had been. And there just hadn’t been a good time to finish the tidying until now. 

Heating a can of soup on the stove, John was perfectly content to have a quiet night at home. His wet shoes and coat were left at the door, and the radiator was whistling and clanking loudly – he almost didn’t hear his mobile ringing in the other room, his dull eyes focused on the small bubbles creeping up to the edges of the broth along the edge of the pot. When he finally realized it was, he could hear the ringer close to going to voicemail and he practically dashed into the foyer to fetch it from his coat pocket. 

“Hello? Ah, shit,” he muttered as he heard it go silent at the instant he’d pressed ‘answer’. Greg calling. There was a jumper that’d been left on Saturday that John suspected could have been his. Doubtless, that was why he was calling. 

John walked back to the kitchen, nearly tripping over Churchill as he came bounding out of wherever he’d been sleeping (most likely John’s bed) at the sound of his cursing. The cat meowed in a halfway annoyed tone – he was always half annoyed at John when he first came home, it seemed. Cradling the phone under his chin, John reached up to get the tin of cat food from atop the fridge while his call back to Greg rang. 

Two rings later, and there he was on the other end.

“John?”

“Hey sorry mate, just missed you. Didn’t hear the phone, had it on silent and the vibrate’s hard to hear and all over my bloody heating system. Anyway, there’s this jumper-“

“John, that’s great, look I need to ask you something.”

“-and I think it might be yours because I don’t know who else – Oh, sorry. Yeah, sure. What’s up?” said John, replacing the food and shifting the phone to his hand. Churchill’s annoyance had completely faded.

“I know this is sort of odd, and I’m guessing I already know the answer, but when’s the last time you heard from Sherlock Holmes?”

“Ah, think it was a few months, ago, actually,” said John, careful to appear perfectly cool and perfectly fine, “Why?”

“Figured. Haven’t head from him in a while. Not answering his phone, no one seems to be at his flat. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure, just thought I’d ask if you knew anything.”

“No, sorry, haven’t any idea,” said John, keenly aware of how much Greg was trying to downplay the whole thing.

“Course, right. What were you saying about a jumper or something?”

“Nothing important. And look, it’s fine, you don’t have to tiptoe around it. I’m not going to go all blubbery and break down or something just because you bring up my ex husband. You of all people should know that, right?”

“…yeah, sorry,” said Greg after a bit of a pause, “I used to totally loathe it when my friends wouldn’t even say Amy’s name around me, like she was… I dunno, Voldemort or something.”

“Voldemort? Are you twelve?” said John laughing.

“No but it’s totally true! Like we’d be talking about something like normal blokes and then suddenly Amy came up and they’d only refer to her as ‘she’. Bloody ominous. At first it was nice, but after a while it was frustrating as hell. It was like, come on, I’m a big boy, I can handle a divorce, we can talk about my ex-wife without it being a dramatic episode, you know?”

“Yeah,” said John, not totally sure if he was at that point yet, but appreciating it nonetheless, “Yeah I know how that is. Well, if I hear from him, I’ll let you know, kay?”

“That’d be fantastic. Talk to you later then? Drinks this weekend or something?”

“Sure thing, see you then,” said John with a smile as he hung up. Churchill, it seemed, had finished eating and taken to threading himself in between John’s calves. Still annoyed about something or another.

The remainder of his night had a sort of cloud hanging over it. It wasn’t just Sherlock, of course. That was always sort of hanging over him. No, it wasn’t the fact that Greg had brought up Sherlock. It had been a few months, and while he didn’t like thinking about Sherlock, it wasn’t as though the mere mention of his name was going to ruin John’s day. It really was _how_ Greg had brought him up. Where the hell was he? Sherlock might occasionally be bad about returning calls or staying in contact, but totally falling off the face of the earth? That wasn’t good. Maybe he was pulling some other stunt like he had all those years ago, literally falling off the face of the earth and out of John’s life for what he had thought would be forever and really just turned out to be three exceptionally miserable years. That was no good at all, because it got John to thinking about how happy he’d been when Sherlock came back. Happiest day of his life, no matter how angry he’d been. Sure, things had been clunky, awkward, even furious between them at times. But John was so sure that, after that, they’d never be separated again. And here they were now. Not torn apart by fate or the elaborate schemings of a madman. But because, at the end of it all and after all the trying John had done, it just didn’t work out. 

It was around this point that John opened a beer. Beer and shit telly, best medicine for this sort of thing. 

It’d be fine, he told himself as he shuffled off to bed, dirty bowl and three empty bottles still sitting on the coffee table. Just Sherlock being an idiot. He’d turn up. He always did. It’d be fine.


	3. Chapter 3

The phone call he got from Greg over the weekend made it very clear that, whatever things were, they certainly weren’t fine. He’d pushed their phone call out of his mind to wrap up the rest of the week. After all, fussing and worrying over Sherlock like some absurd mother hen wasn’t his job any more. If Sherlock was being a prize idiot or being reckless and dangerous and stupid, well, that was no concern of his. They were divorced. It wasn’t John’s jurisdiction any more. 

But that was the problem with them. It’d been so many years of Sherlock being precisely John’s jurisdiction, when no one else felt like minding him, that people seemed to forget things weren’t that way any more.

John was already on the way to the pub with some work friends when his phone lit up from Greg. They were walking from the surgery, a group of about five, laughing and carrying on about the weekend as they made their way a few blocks west to a cheap place they frequented after work often. Picking up, of course John was mid-invitation to come out and join them when he was cut off.

“–John! John, I can’t, I’m sorry, I’m up to my ears in ridiculous, unsolvable cases. I know it’s Friday and, trust me, I wish I could blow out of here and join you at the pub, but it’s completely impossible. I’m making this fast because I don’t want to cock up your night too badly, but listen: it would be the biggest favor in the world if you could just try calling up Sherlock and seeing if he answers. Don’t think about it as phoning up your ex, think about it like… doing your civic duty. Because really, the Yard’s a bit of a shit show without him. Can you just try him and see if he’ll answer? If he does, tell him I’m about ready to kill him if he hasn’t accidentally offed himself or something. And I promise the instant I get a free night off, I will buy as many rounds of drinks as you like at whatever pub you like.” 

Waving his friends on to keep walking without him, John had stopped to lean against a stoplight, forehead tensing as he listened to Greg’s request. It’s not as though he could refuse, what with the way Greg was putting it. But it was so unbelievably bloody annoying to still be dealing with _him_ and all his bollocks. Hadn’t John washed his hands of this nonsense when they got divorced?

He sighed heavily after a long pause, indicating his decision.

“Alright. Yeah, it’s fine-“

“That’s fantastic, really, thank you so much. John Watson, savior of England!”

“Alright there’s no need to flatter me,” said John tersely, “I’ll call him right now, text you if he answers or not. And that’s it. Okay?” He knew he sounded cross. But what did Greg expect, really, phoning him on a Friday night to chat about Sherlock.

“That’s all I want. Can’t thank you enough, really. I won’t hold you up any more, John, and I’ll let you know about drinks, okay? Soon, mate, promise!”

“Yes alright, goodbye,” said John a bit too shortly as he hung up. He could hear the stress in Greg’s voice, hear how noisy things were down there, how disorganized. But it’s not like he was responsible every time Sherlock went and did something stupid! Christ, it’d been bad enough when they were friends and even worse when they were an item and worst when they were married. But this was inexcusable. They were separated, and still the world acted like they had some kind of telepathic connection? Seething, John found his ex-husband’s contact in his phone and held it to his ear. 

He wasn’t quite sure which would be worse – having him pick up and having to actually talk to him, or it ringing out and the prospect of getting another nagging call from Greg.

As it turned out, it’d be the latter, as Sherlock didn’t answer the phone just then, nor did he pick up much later that night when a very drunk John came home and apparently thought a second call would be a good idea. 

Of course, he didn’t realize he’d made that second call, nor the third one two minutes later until he saw it in his call history. And he didn’t look at his call history until he woke up groggily early Saturday afternoon, more than a little hungover. 

The rest of Saturday was spent consumed with worry that, horror upon horrors, he had left a voicemail after either of those missed calls around 2AM. At least he had remembered to text Greg that his first phone call had been fruitless, but he of course wasn’t about to mention the other two and he certainly wasn’t going to try Sherlock a fourth time to see if he’d left a voicemail.

Ridiculous. This was a divorce, not a Uni break-up with some girl he’d been dating for four months. He should be handling this like an adult. Not that Sherlock ever handled, well, anything like an adult.

Another week of watchful peace, and then next Saturday morning there was one last call from Greg that put a definitive end to whatever attempts John had been making at distancing himself and not caring about whatever was going on with Mister Holmes.

The call was almost refused on principle. The principle that divorced means divorced and they were not a couple – in fact, they were the least ‘couple’ they had ever, ever been. 

But something else won out. Stupidity, maybe. Or loyalty to Greg, who he’d been a tad short with a week ago and whose friendship really had been invaluable throughout this whole thing. Certainly not loyalty to Sherlock. That had dried up ages ago. Maybe it was curiousity. Really, though, if he had to pinpoint it, it was an itchy sense of indistinct complacency. Not boredom, because that was _his_ word for it. But it had to be the same thing. Greg's calls, unwelcome as they were, broke the monotony of his work schedule and distracted him from his cat and gave him something to think on beyond the state of his bank account or the orderliness of his flat and his mind. 

“Why do I have a feeling you’re not ringing me to say everything’s going just swimmingly for you and you want to buy me that round tonight?” said John almost patiently as he picked up the phone.

“If only we could be that lucky,” answered Greg with a bit of a guilty laugh. 

“Didn’t think so,” said John as he settled on the cat hair covered sofa he’d been meaning to clean today. Clearly, that wasn’t going to be happening. Actually, he had a bad sort of feeling whatever plans he’d had for the day were about to be obliterated.

“See, here’s the thing. Last night I took Donovan and we sort of got Mrs. Hudson to let us into the flat. She said she hadn’t seen him in a while, but then he’s been a bit more withdrawn since, well, you know. I don’t know how much you talk to her. Well, the flat’s a wreck. Food’s all spoiled, there’s mould growing on the dining room table that started in Petri dishes. I don’t think he’s been there for weeks. And then, of course, his phone and computer are still there. Phone battey’s long dead, and computer browser history says the last time it was used was over a month ago. Fact of the matter is, even if he’s been a bit annoying the past few months – not that he was ever really a joy to be around – he’s still a friend. Dunno if he’d say the same. But I’m declaring him missing and I’m going to try and find him, wherever he is. It's like an instant headache walking into the Yard recently, it'd actually be less stressful, hunting for him. I figure, hey, maybe you’re bored and feeling masochistic. It’ll be like old times. Want to see how fast the two of us can solve a mystery without the famous Sherlock Holmes to help us out?”

“I think,” said John quickly, not allowing too long a pause after Greg finished his obviously-rehearsed speech, “You’re overestimating my ex-husband. In fact, subtracting all the time we used to waste putting out his fires, I rather think the two of us stand a much better chance at cracking this thing in record time. His record, actually.”

The bark of laughter on the other line made John smile, actually smile in a way he hadn’t in a long time. Not since old times.


End file.
